Chapter Thirteen: Unwavering Support

Chapter Thirteen: Standing Strong

After the song ended, the room remained in a prolonged silence. Whether it was Chen Ke and his companions, or the staff present, everyone seemed immersed in their own emotions. Especially Chen Ke, Zhou Run, and Yang Xin’er—the film’s director and its leading actors—their feelings were undoubtedly the deepest.

This song fit the story of the film so perfectly. Listening to it, one couldn’t help but resonate, as the vulnerable love ballad touched the depths of their hearts, making it impossible not to be drawn in.

It was a sorrowful song, yet a classic one. Classic songs always allow the audience to empathize, governed by the sadness and longing woven into their melodies.

“Cold Fireworks” had undoubtedly plucked a chord in everyone’s heart, and the whole room was suffused with a sense of melancholy.

It wasn’t until the television station staff came to notify them that the show was about to be recorded that everyone gradually came back to themselves from the emotions of before.

“Now I finally understand what it means to be a genius! And why he so easily won the heart of our Miss Xin’er. With such talent, what woman could resist?” Zhou Run sighed, glancing at Chen Ke, whose expression made it clear he was highly satisfied with the song.

“A genius? I’d say he’s an eccentric!” Chen Ke remarked, a trace of amazement in his voice. “Isn’t he a graduate of the directing department? I didn’t expect him to be so gifted in music! He’s surprised me. I remember Xin’er mentioned he’s working on a film. Now, I’m incredibly interested in his project! I want to see if his talent in directing is as dazzling as it is in music.”

“Haha! I’m interested too,” Zhou Run chuckled, then added, “Director Chen, what do you think of the song?”

“It’s excellent! Absolutely excellent! If this song doesn’t become the theme for this film, what else could?” Chen Ke smiled, then looked at Zhou Run and asked, “But should he sing it himself, or...?”

“He may have a few flaws in his singing, but they’re easily overcome. His style is unique, and the impression he leaves is indelible—now I can’t get it out of my mind. Anyone else who sings it will likely be influenced by him. Besides, composing, writing, and performing the theme song benefits the film’s publicity greatly,” Zhou Run replied with a smile.

Yang Xin’er was a little surprised. She knew Zhou Run usually performed the theme songs for films he starred in, unless the song didn’t suit a male voice or didn’t fit his vocal range.

In fact, “Cold Fireworks” might sound even better with Zhou Run’s performance. After all, Zhang Le’s singing skills paled compared to Zhou Run’s, and as the film’s lead, Zhou Run could easily convey the song’s emotional depth, perhaps even matching Zhang Le, its original author.

“Haha!” Zhou Run noticed Yang Xin’er’s grateful gaze and smiled. “The two of you are hot topics now, at the center of media attention. If the theme song for your film is written, composed, and performed by him, it’s a perfect angle for publicity—a huge boost for the film.”

Online, especially in music circles, the skepticism toward Zhang Le had lessened but still lingered. If Zhang Le wrote, composed, and performed the film’s theme song, it would be a powerful rebuttal to those doubts. Whether Zhang Le sang it or not became irrelevant; as long as he was the composer and lyricist, that was enough.

Thus, Zhou Run’s relinquishment of the singing rights could easily be seen as supporting Zhang Le, or as doing a favor for Yang Xin’er.

Of course, if Zhang Le insisted on singing it himself, Zhou Run and the others would agree. The song had already moved them deeply, and they could hardly find another so fitting for the theme. But for Zhou Run to proactively offer Zhang Le the chance to perform, versus Zhang Le asking for it, were two completely different matters.

Yang Xin’er was undoubtedly the happiest. She had sent out four songs, but skepticism persisted. If Zhang Le wrote, composed, and sang the theme for this film, she believed those doubts would be laid to rest.

People could claim those earlier songs weren’t Zhang Le’s own, but with this one, there was no room for such far-fetched excuses. After all, so many musicians had failed to create a theme song for “Waiting for Return,” who could claim Zhang Le used a ghostwriter?

What Yang Xin’er had received on her phone was only a demo; the theme song would need to be re-recorded.

Online, the questioning of Zhang Le continued unabated, fueled by those working behind the scenes to stir things up. Li Ming, who had been left speechless by Zhang Le’s scathing remark, was especially active—calling friends, personally showing up at events, and tirelessly doubting Zhang Le’s background, past, and the style of his songs, sounding quite professional. But his reputation had been damaged too severely by Zhang Le’s infamous post.

Yet, a sudden news report caught those doubters off guard.

The theme song for “Waiting for Return,” the most anticipated film of the new century, had been finalized: the lyricist, composer, and performer was Zhang Le, the advertising director who had risen to fame after his relationship with Yang Xin’er became public.

And soon after, Zhou Run and Chen Ke both openly voiced their support for Zhang Le online, praising his talent to the skies.

Chen Ke and Zhou Run were notorious for their strict standards regarding films. For both to commend Zhang Le so highly could only mean his song had utterly impressed them.

So many renowned musicians had failed to satisfy them, but Zhang Le succeeded—what did that say? Who could still question Zhang Le without also questioning Chen Ke and Zhou Run?

When it came to Zhang Le, people felt free to doubt him, but no one dared challenge Chen Ke and Zhou Run.

Instantly, the skepticism toward Zhang Le vanished.

The film’s theme song became a hot topic, eagerly anticipated by fans, music lovers, and countless music producers and critics alike.

The doubters grew silent, but that didn’t mean they had given up. They were merely waiting for the song’s release, ready to nitpick.

Zhang Le, however, paid them no mind. In his view, one’s energy is limited; wasting it on such matters was not worthwhile.

He was now busy preparing for his own film.

Unfortunately, Zhang Le was deeply frustrated: as a director, no one approached him to make films, and even his own project couldn’t attract investment—not even for a low-budget production.

Even as a director of little renown, he couldn’t help but feel stifled.

Failing to secure investment for his film was one thing, but as a director, he was now besieged by companies and celebrities seeking songs, and performance invitations poured in.

It left Zhang Le bemused and helpless.

Of course, some were willing to invest in his film, but their terms were unacceptable.

Nearly all investors demanded Yang Xin’er star in the film.

Having Yang Xin’er act wasn’t an issue, but the problem was that the investment wasn’t enough to cover her fee. The implication was obvious—they wanted Zhang Le to leverage his relationship with Yang Xin’er to get her to act for free.

Their calculations were meticulous, but Zhang Le wasn’t foolish. Besides, if his success hinged on sacrificing Yang Xin’er’s interests, what sense of accomplishment would he have afterward?

Success without a sense of achievement is no success at all.

“How much investment does your film actually need?” Yang Xin’er asked with concern.

“Four million, five at most,” Zhang Le replied wryly. Nowadays, films made for less than ten million were rare; four to five million was a drop in the bucket.

Who could have imagined that, at the peak of his popularity, he would struggle so much to raise such a sum? It seemed his fame was not the right kind. No matter how famous he became, it was all empty.

Whoever said that celebrities live off their reputation? Fame, no matter how resounding, is useless.